


All That We Let In

by Edge_of_Clairvoyance



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Brother Feels, Brotherly Love, Comfort, Comfort/Angst, Corporal Punishment, Discipline, Family, Family Drama, Family Dynamics, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Non-Consensual Spanking, POV John Winchester, Parent-Child Relationship, Pre-Series, Pre-Series Dean Winchester, Pre-Series Sam Winchester, Punishment, Spanking, Teen Dean Winchester, Teenchesters, Weechesters, Young Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-17
Updated: 2018-05-17
Packaged: 2019-05-08 07:52:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14689719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Edge_of_Clairvoyance/pseuds/Edge_of_Clairvoyance
Summary: Dean had an excuse. He had plenty of them. And John thought that he should let this one pass, allow Dean back in the car and try to forget all about it. But looking at Dean he saw the pure guilt on the boy's face, and he knew that just telling his son he was forgiven would not do for Dean, not right now; not with how his eyes were so wide and scared and pleading.





	All That We Let In

**Author's Note:**

> Parental spanking of a minor and mentioning of a slap - if it offends, please don't read.  
> An f-word or two, but John is actually being quite polite here.
> 
> The title is a song by Indigo Girls
> 
> Again saved from rude mistakes by [ToscaRossetti](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToscaRossetti/pseuds/ToscaRossetti) and [CrazedPanda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrazedPanda) \- you guys are the best!

"Deeeean, you're not listening to me!"

"I'm listening."

"No, you're _not_! What was I just saying?!"

John glanced up at Sammy through the rearview mirror. It wasn't like he really needed to see the kid's face in order to know what mood he was in; that piercing tone was more than enough.

Dean didn't need to see Sam's face either, because he didn't turn in his seat, only sighed. "I'm sorry. I'm listening now, okay?"

"You're listening _now_ , but you didn't listen _before_."

John stole a glance at Dean. He half-expected Dean to lash out at Sam, with the way he was rattling on from the back seat practically from the time they started driving after breakfast until now, when rays of sun were slanting into John's eyes through the windshield.

Dean didn't lash out, just rubbed a hand down his face. "I'm sorry, Sammy. Go ahead."

Sam huffed something about "having to repeat the _whole thing_ ", and then resumed his chattering. John had lost track of it hours ago. He was grateful that Sam wasn't counting on him to respond, and feeling a little sorry for Dean. This hadn't exactly been a good week for John's eldest, not with the way the hunt went. Dean would have undoubtedly slept for the better part of the drive if it wasn't for Sam.

Why on earth schools would hold debates for fourth-graders, John had no idea. Shouldn't they be just learning to do simple fractions or whatever at this age? Well, not Sam – he was smart, terrifyingly so – but _normal_ fourth-graders, anyway.

"When a child gets to pick his or her own punishment, it indicates that he or she accepts the responsibility for the offense-"

But the last school Sam was enrolled in held regular debates for his grade, and it was just their luck to get there when the class was getting ready for a big one, that would be held in front of the whole school. Sam, unsurprisingly, dove right in. If he hadn't been on the route to be trained as a hunter, John could easily see him become a big-shot lawyer.

"Accepting responsibility is important, because it's the very thing that will prevent repeating the offense, whereas the fear of punishment-"

They couldn't stay for the debate, though, and Sam threw a fit so bad John got scared a neighbor might call the cops. He was yelling about letting his team down, about being almost done with his part of the research, about needing just a little more time, and _come on, Dad, It's not fair!_

John was about to whack him and be done with it, but Dean stepped in and offered to check with the teacher if she would be willing to accept Sam's paper via fax when they reached their next destination.

"Bestowing responsibility provokes responsibility with the recipient party-"

"Dude, dial it down a notch," Dean said.

"What?" Sam raised his head from his notes.

"The words you're using are too big. You're gonna lose the debate for the sole reason that nobody has a damn clue what you're saying."

"I'm not the one saying it. I'm just preparing-"

"Whatever. You know what I mean."

"Fine," Sam's pencil scratched on the paper. "But just because _you_ don't know those words doesn't mean they're too big."

John looked over at Dean again; the boy didn't seem offended by this blunt – if unintentional – insult. He just rubbed his right eye and continued to stare out the windshield.

"Can I _go on_ now?" Sam's tone was impatient.

"Yeah, sure."

"As for the notion that a child might choose an inappropriate punishment-"

Sam's teacher agreed to have the paper faxed over and promised to include it in the arguments for Sam's team. Sam was determined to finish perfecting it by the time they reached the town John planned to stay the night in.

"They'd better have a fax machine there," Sam commented as he rearranged his papers and looked for the next one.

"Every post office does," Dean said.

"Not _every_ post office. What's this town called?"

Dean glanced questioningly at John, who said, "Red Ridge."

"Sounds like a backwater hick town," Sam muttered. "I bet they don't even have a post office, not to mention a fax machine."

"It'll be okay, Sammy," Dean said. "I'm sure they have a fax machine."

"How can you be sure?!" Jesus, there was that pitch again. "I need to send it over by _tomorrow_ , otherwise they won't have time to work it into our team's notes, and if they don't have a post office with a fax machine there, then I won't have any time to find another way to send it. And I'm not even _done_ with it because I didn't have enough time at the library, and-"

John raised his eyes to the rearview mirror, the reprimand already on his tongue, but Dean turned in his seat toward Sam.

"We'll stop at the next gas station and look at the phone book to see if Red Ridge has a post office _and_ a fax machine. In the meantime, why don't you finish the paper so it'll be ready when we get there?"

Sam looked at him for a minute, and then started rearranging the papers again. Dean turned back, throwing a glance at John before sinking into his seat and closing his eyes. John could see the scratches and cuts Dean still wore – reminders of the damned hunt they couldn't finish.

"If a parent or a teacher trusts a child to decide whether he or she deserves to be punished in the first place, this trust must also extend to trusting him or her to choose an appropriate punishment when needed-"

It was Dean's fault that the Chupacabra got away from them. They almost had it after four intense days of tracking, and one rookie mistake was all it took for the creature to vanish. Of course, Dean _was_ a rookie, and as upset as John had been, he could take an occasional screw-up from his son, especially since the boy was trying so hard.

Dean couldn't, though. After John had asserted that the Chupacabra was gone, Dean insisted on tracking it all over again, badgering John relentlessly to get back on the hunt. Understanding Dean's disappointment with his own performance and his need to make amends, John had obliged and let him try and find the creature for almost two days more, before calling it quits. But Dean wouldn't have it, and as sympathetic for his son's desperation as he might had been, there was a limit to how much nagging John could tolerate; it wasn't until he eventually lost it and slapped Dean, that the boy had finally shut up.

"A self-chosen punishment is more likely to have a lasting effect on the child, as a result of acceptance of responsibility-"

"You keep repeating it," Dean said.

"What?"

"The responsibility thing."

"That's the argument, didn't you get it by now?" Sam's voice was somewhere between pointed to downright accusing.

"But you're just saying the same thing in different words. I thought you need to come up with more ideas."

"I need to establish my argument. Don't you know anything about debates?"

"I know there's a time limit for each speaker, and you need to keep the argument reasonably short-"

"That's not the point! You're not _helping_ , Dean!"

Dean let out a quiet breath, not exactly a sigh, and sank further into his seat. "Okay. You're right. Go on."

Sam ruffled through his pages, and John was incredibly relieved to see a sign pointing to a gas station a mile away. His foot pressed down on the accelerator pedal, making the Impala surge forward with a rumble.

He felt like it wasn't a minute too soon when they pulled off the road and into the empty dirt lot of the gas station. He rolled the car to the very edge of it, almost behind the building, where a tall cedar tree provided a cool shade to nestle her into.

Sam bolted out the door and ran toward a payphone booth. Dean climbed out, muttered "I got this" at John, and jogged after his brother.

John took his time trailing behind his sons; he was determined to make the most out of whatever time he had with no childish voices drilling into his brain.

Sam was already leafing through the tattered directory inside the booth while Dean stood next to it and rummaged in his jeans pockets.

Sam stuck his head out. "Dean, do you have-" Dean poured some quarters into his outstretched hand, and Sam drew back into the booth.

While his youngest was making his calls, John looked at his eldest; Dean was shifting his weight from one leg to the other, watching his little brother and absently rubbing his eyes again. John wondered how he'd missed the paleness of his face and the shadows under his eyes.

Sam stormed out of the booth. "They're not picking up the phone at the Red Ridge post office! Why won't they pick up the phone?!"

"Maybe they're closed early," Dean turned and started to walk back to the car. "We'll get there and see."

"But I have to know if they have a fax machine!" Sam hurried after his brother, his short legs trying to catch up with Dean's much longer ones. "I need you to help me find a business next door to the post office that we can call and get them to check!"

Dean didn't even glance back at him. "We can't go over the entire goddamned directory to look for a business next door. You'll just have to wait till we get there."

"You promised you'd help me with my paper!" Sam reached to grab Dean's shirt, but Dean moved forward and the fabric slipped through Sam's fingers.

"And I tried to, but it's getting too much. Just calm down already, will ya? There's nothing we can do right now-"

"Yes, there _is_!" Sam finally managed to hold on to the tail of Dean's flannel and pulled, making the older boy halt.

"Let go, Sam," he said. John widened his steps to get to them, alarm boiling in the pit of his stomach.

"You said you'd help me, so help me!" Sam gave his brother's shirt a tug. Dean stood motionless. His fists clenched briefly, then unclenched.

"Let. Go."

"No! Not until you-" with a swift, smooth motion, Dean turned and slapped Sam across the face. The younger boy's head was thrown aside with the force of the blow and he staggered backwards, lost his footing as he tripped over a loose rock, and went down on his butt.

For a moment all three Winchesters were frozen in place; Sam on the ground staring wide-eyed up at Dean, Dean standing above him with his face as shocked as his brother's, and John a few steps away from them, gaping at both his sons.

John was the first to come to. He covered the distance to Dean, grabbed his upper arm hard enough to bruise and hurled him back, spinning on his heel to stare the boy straight in the eyes.

"Hands on the trunk, right now. Move an inch and you'll be sorry. And keep your mouth _shut_."

Dean didn’t even 'yes, sir' him, probably fearing it would be considered disobeying the order to shut up. He reached the car in seconds, put his palms flat on the trunk and dropped his head.

John kneeled next to Sam, put a hand under his chin and turned his face to him. He had a faint red mark on his cheek, but it didn't look like it was going to bruise. Other than that Sam didn't seem hurt, just stunned. John patted his face and raked a hand through his hair.

"You're okay?"

Sam nodded, and John lifted him to his feet. Sam clung to him for a minute, and John let him regain his composure. Sam looked over his arm at Dean, who was standing with his back to them.

"It's not Dean's fault," he said quietly. "Please don't whip him, Dad, he's just-"

"Shhhh. Come, I want you to sit in the car and have a drink of water."

He held Sam's hand when they walked to the car, putting himself between him and Dean. He could see Dean turning his head, trying to get a look at Sam without breaking position, but John didn't want the two of them exchanging glances yet. He opened the rear door and let Sam climb in, watched him settle in the seat, and leaned a little into the car.

"Stay there, no looking back through the window at your brother. Understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"Drink some water."

Sam bent to look for their water bottle, found it on the floor and took a sip. John nodded at him and closed the door. Then he went over to the rear of the car.

Dean looked up at him, his face both terrified and worried. Tears were running down his cheeks; he probably didn't dare take his hands off the trunk to wipe them away.

"What the fucking hell was that, Dean?" John growled at him.

"I'm sorry," Dean's voice was teary and trembling. "I'm so sorry, I don't know what… I just got mad and I… is Sammy okay?"

"He'll be fine. But you had no excuse, _no fucking excuse_. He's not even _ten_ , for crying out loud."

"I know, I'm sorry, let me tell Sammy I'm sorry, please, Dad."

John stood there for a minute looking at him. He said Dean had no excuse, but it wasn't entirely true; Dean was tired and frustrated and Sam tried his patience more than usual. It was actually remarkable that Dean hadn't snapped sooner. John realized _he_ wouldn't have endured it that long.

_Some role model you are, Winchester_

Dean had an excuse. He had plenty of them. And John thought that he should let this one pass, allow Dean back in the car and try to forget all about it. But looking at Dean he saw the pure guilt on the boy's face, and he knew that just telling his son he was forgiven would not do for Dean, not right now; not with how his eyes were so wide and scared and pleading.

John started unbuckling his belt, and even before he had it out of the loops of his jeans, Dean was already pushing his own jeans down along with the boxers and bending over the trunk. John took a minute longer to look at him as he leaned on his forearms and dipped his head low over the black metal. He could see Dean's back heaving with shaky breaths, and his hand rising momentarily to wipe his face.

A lump rose in John's throat. He wanted to tell Dean to get up and get back in the car with his Sammy. And Dean would obey, of course he would, but he would still have that look of guilt on his face. And when John would tell him he didn't deserve this, he would say "yes, sir". But he wouldn't believe it. Not by a long shot.

So John held the belt tightly, positioned himself behind his son, and brought the leather down, and then again, and then again. Dean kept quiet, flinching as the belt hit, his back arching over the trunk.

John listened carefully to Dean, noting how his breath caught with every lash, but the boy still didn't make a sound, even though John knew he was landing the belt hard, and the marks it was leaving on Dean's skin were red and angry.

Maybe Dean knew. Maybe he felt it. Maybe he could tell that his father was going to stop as soon as he heard the first sob. And maybe he was trying to make it last long enough for the penance to be complete.

At last he let that sob out, and John stopped, and put the belt back on. Dean's body was shaking, and he winced as John put a hand on his shoulder. John carefully rubbed Dean's back, trying to calm him down. The boy's breath was coming in trembling gasps, and John knew it was not so much on account of the whipping – he probably landed less than ten licks – but because Dean was still too shaken.

He rubbed Dean's back some more, and then slid his arms under Dean's torso and lifted him up so he could hold him against his body. Dean leaned into the hug, as he always did, but John could feel something still coiled and stressed and unyielding, and he knew it took more than his embrace to get Dean settled.

He gave Dean one last rub. "Get back in the car, son."

Dean disengaged and reached to hoist his pants up even before John finished talking. Seconds later he was opening the rear door and sliding in. John moved around the car in time to watch Sam practically flying over the bench into Dean's arms.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, Sammy, I'm so sorry," the tears were back into Dean's voice as he all but crushed Sam to him.

"It was my fault, I'm sorry, Dean," Sam's voice came out chocked, and not just because of Dean's tight hug.

John climbed into the driver's seat and sat there, listening to the little sniffling breaths of his boys as they curled into each other behind him. He reached to touch his face and his fingers came back damp.

He took a breath and raised his gaze to the rearview mirror. Dean had settled with Sam wrapped in his arms, his head tucked under Dean's chin and his little fist grabbing firmly onto Dean's shirt.

"You boys alright?" John asked, his eyes passing from one boy to another. They both nodded. John turned the car on. "We're not too far away from Red Ridge now, Sammy. We'll go to the post office first-"

"No, it's okay," Sam said softly. He moved his head a little, rubbing his cheek against Dean's chest. "I don't care about the stupid paper anymore. Just… can we just go?"

John steered the Impala back onto the road. They drove in silence, and when he glanced through the rearview mirror again, the boys were sound asleep, their faces calm and smooth and rosy with the last rays of the setting sun.

John touched his face again. It was still a little wet, but he could feel himself smiling.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Like my works? Want to subscribe and get updates on new stories? Make sure you subscribe to the **user** and not the specific work!


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